


A Knight's Tale

by zoe19blink



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Medieval, F/M, Humor, Inspired by a Movie, Nobility, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-11 09:07:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5621557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoe19blink/pseuds/zoe19blink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal Cassidy is nothing but a squire, but with the help of his friends, Rum, Robin, and Jefferson, maybe he can fool the nobles into thinking he's a knight...and possibly even win over the thoroughly unimpressed Lady Emma. Based off the movie, delightfully so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The knight didn’t move. He was a pile of rusty armor and dim metal, propped up against a tree, his head lolling to the side. Neal leaned forward, frowning at his master.

“Sir?” he asked. “It’s nearly time for you to ride. You’ve got to get up.”

He didn’t answer. The sun glinted off his armor, and the wind gently whistled through the metal joints, but he didn't answer.

“Has he said anything?” Rum asked, coming up behind him with the shield. 

Neal shook his head. “Not a word.”

They considered the still form. Neal thoughtfully folded his arms while Rum furrowed his brow, looking for even the smallest sign of movement, the tiniest indication of life. 

“God help us,” Rum said grimly. “You think he’s…?”

Neal nodded silently. Rum cursed again, throwing down the shield. Sir Ector, dead. Just what they needed. Being squire to a poor knight was bad enough, but squire to a dead knight was even worse. 

“Oi!”

Neal and Rum turned as Robin came into view, irritably jerking away from the branches that pulled at his tunic. “Bloody _hell!_ ” he grunted, ripping free from them. “Stupid little— _whoa!”_

He tripped over his own feet, landing clumsily on the ground. Neal and Rum looked down at him, unimpressed, as he pushed himself up, spitting out a string of curse under his breath.

“Christ,” he grimaced, brushing the dirt and grass from his knees. “Sir Ector up? He’s got to ride in minutes.”

Neal exchanged a look with Rum. “Er…thing is, Rob,” he said carefully, toeing the ground. “Sir Ector’s not going to be up in time to ride.”

Robin frowned. “What? What does that mean?”

“He’s dead,” Rum said flatly. 

Neal winced as the look on Robin’s face transformed from confusion to panicked anger. “No, no, no—he’s only sleeping!” he insisted. “Can’t be dead, bloody fool can’t be dead…”

“Rob, leave it,” Neal complained as he pushed past him to knock on Sir Ector’s helmet. “He’s not going to—”

“ _Wake up!_ ” Robin shouted, his fist clanging against the metal helmet. “Come on, you useless git, wake up!”

“He’s dead, you idiot!” Rum called as Robin furiously tugged at his arm.

“ _Get up, you wanker!”_

“He’s not getting up, boy—I told you, he’s dead!”

“Rubbish!” Robin kicked the armor, glaring mutinously at the dead knight. “I haven't eaten in three—” _clang!—“_ flogging—” _clang!—_ “days!” 

They’d been depending on that tournament. The money was running low, they barely had enough for one man’s night at an inn. If they didn't think of something, they were going to end up like those miserable souls along the road, with only a few rags over their back and begging hands. 

“Stop that!” Rum snapped as Robin started beating the armor with a stick. “He’s already _dead!_ ”

Neal exhaled impatiently as the two of them started arguing. God knew, they didn't need to waste time bickering at each other, not when they had a dead employer on their hands. They were already half-starved and broke—their time was far better spent coming to some sort of conclusion. Honestly, at this point he was so desperate, he had half a mind to get on the horse and enter the bloody tournament himself.

Enter the tournament himself.

 _Win_ the tournament himself?

Neal slowly lifted his head, his eyes widening as the idle thought turned into an idea. No one would know the difference, he’d be all suited up in armor, his face covered by the helmet— _yes!_ Who had to know that Sir Ector was dead? He could _become_ Sir Ector, with a stolen helmet and some borrowed squires! If he lost, he lost, and they’d be no worse off than they already were. But if they won…

“Hey,” he said, shaking himself out of his daze. “Hey, you two, knock it off! Oi!” 

He ran over, shoving his hands between the two of them to keep them apart. They glowered at each other past him, still struggling against his hands, but Neal stepped authoritatively in the middle.

“I said, _enough,_ ” he said, looking sternly between them. “Stop fighting, I’ve got an idea.”

“What are you on about?” Rum scoffed as Robin tossed his head derisively. “What _idea_ is there to be had? Sir Ector’s dead, Robin’s lost his wits, and we’re out of money. If there was ever a hopeless situation, this is it!”

“Right, so what have we got to lose?” Neal said, dropping his hands. “Rob, strip him of his armor, I’m riding in his place.”

Robin blinked at him. “What?”

“ _Strip him of his armor,_ ” Neal enunciated. “I’ll ride in his place.”

Robin looked at Rum, then back at Neal and nodded. “Okay,” he said, and turned around to start ripping the armor off the knight. Neal gathered up the loose pieces, studiously ignoring Rum as he stared down at him.

“What’s your name?”

“Pass me the helmet,” Neal ordered, holding out his hand. Rum raised his voice.

“I’m asking you, Neal Cassidy, to answer me with your name. Eh?” He nudged him with his boot; then again a little harder when Neal didn't respond. “It’s not _Sir_ Neal, is it? It’s not _Lord_ Neal, it’s not _Count_ Neal, it certainly isn't _King_ Neal—”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Neal demanded, abandoning the laces of the knee pads to glare at the older man. “I’m a nobody, I know that as well as anyone!”

“Then what do you think you’re doing, entering a tournament?” Rum said wildly. “You have to be of noble birth to compete!”

“ _So we lie,”_ Neal said testily. “How did the nobles become noble, anyway? Hmm?” He raised his eyebrows, waiting for a response. “I’ll tell you how—they claimed it. Claimed it themselves, with nothing but a blade and their own foolish courage. They clawed their way to the top by proving they had enough nerve to do it.” He snatched up the other knee pad, not taking his eyes off Rum as he pulled it on. “Do you want to eat tonight or not?”

Rum look exasperated. “Yeah, ‘course I do, but—”

“Then stop nagging like an old goat, and _help me._ ” Neal stood up, tossing him the chest plate. Rum caught it reluctantly, and trailed his eyes up, looking at him worriedly. 

“If the nobles find out—”

“If the nobles find out, we’ll lose our heads. And if we don’t at least give it a shot, we starve to death.” Neal shrugged, gesturing at him. “It’s your luxury, to decide how you want to die.”

Rum looked at him for a long time, turning the chest plate between his hands; Neal looked back, holding his breath. _Come on,_ he thought. _Come on, Rum, take a risk._

Rum closed his eyes. “Damn you, Neal Cassidy,” he muttered, taking a few grudging steps toward him. “All right, lift your arms—Rob, come help me get this fool of a man into Ector’s armor.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Neal took a deep breath, gripping the reins tightly. The armor was heavy, made uncomfortably hot from the heat of the sun, and too big to fit him very well. He prayed nothing would come loose during the joust: they were dangerous, sometimes deadly. Thank God Sir Ector had been a skilled knight: he had scored enough the last few rounds that all Neal needed to do to win was stay on his horse. 

“I still say this is a bad idea,” Rum grumbled, handing him the lance. “What chance does a squire have against a trained jouster?”

“I’ve tipped against Sir Ector before, thank you,” Neal said defensively, his voice echoing inside the helmet. “I know what I’m doing.”

“As a target, yeah,” Rum scoffed. “As a competitor? No.”

“Never mind that,” Neal said, staring straight ahead as the other knight took up his lance. “I’ve been waiting my whole life for this moment.”

Robin frowned, turning his head. “You’ve been waiting your whole life for Sir Ector to die of heatstroke?”

“Shut up, Rob,” the other two said together.

“Cheeky.”

The match proprietor stepped onto the field, looking sternly between the two knights. “Stand ready!” he called out, and raised his arms. “Lord Phillip?”

The other knight raised his lance to indicate he was ready. The proprietor turned and looked to Neal.

“Sir Ector?”

Neal nodded, and raised his lance. The match proprietor lowered his arms to take the flag from the boy behind him, and dangled it in the middle of the field. Neal trained his eyes on it, swallowing hard against his rapidly beating heart. This was it. 

 _A man can change his stars,_ his father’s voice echoed in his head. _Remember that, boy. If he’s got enough nerve and heart, a man can do anything._

Even pretend to be noble.

“ _GO!”_

The flag dropped, and the other horse reared up, letting out a whinny before it charged. Neal dug his heels into his horse, clinging to the reins as it rumbled forward, kicking up dust as they raced toward Lord Phillip. He lowered the lance, clenching his teeth as he fought to keep it steady; he held the shield tightly on his arm, hugging it close, never taking his eyes off the other lance for a second as it charged closer—closer—

 _Crash!_ Wood splintered as the lance tips broke into the shields. A wave of force rocked Neal back, nearly sending him tumbling from the horse, but he clung to the reins and tensed his muscles, holding himself in the saddle—

“YEAH!” the crowd shouted, clapping thundering and sending out whoops and whistles. Neal grinned inside his helmet, raising his broken lance as he rode past Lord Phillip. Cheers erupted from the stands, but none as loud as Rum’s and Robin’s as they ran up behind him, pumping their fists victoriously in the air as they screamed, “WE’VE WON! WE’VE WON!”

“Told you,” Neal said breathlessly, still perched on the horse. “I know what I’m doing.”

“God love ye, Cassidy,” Rum smiled, shaking his head. “You’re a bloody fool, but you’ve got guts.”

“Yeah, he does!” Robin said excitedly, hammering him on the back. “Now, come on! Go claim your silver! There’s a meat pie in a tavern somewhere, waiting for me!”

 

* * *

 

As they trudged back from the fairground, Neal weighed the heavy sack of silver in his hand. It had been unnerving at the time, just before the charge, but competing in the match felt… _right._ He was born to do this: to live on the edge, risk his life just to get that rush of adrenaline, feeling the horse’s powerful legs galloping beneath as he raced toward an opponent, proving himself before a crowd of skeptics. Jousting was more nerve than skill.

The swording rink was where skill really mattered. Knowing when to swing, when to duck, how to handle a sword with another man viciously hacking at your armor; knowing how to be light on your feet, when to attack, when to pull back; how to tire your opponent, make him chase you and waste his energy until you could deliver the final, winning blow. 

Neal’s father had been a squire, as well. He still remembered being seven years old, rake in hand while his father showed him how to parry and thrust, how to block a swing from the side versus overhead. Those lessons, and the little wooden cross he wore round his neck, were all he had left of his father. Those, and the last words he’d spoken to him before sending him off to squire for Sir Ector: “ _A man can change his stars,”_ he’d said, smiling kindly at the little boy as he smoothed his hair back. “ _Remember that, boy. If he’s got enough nerve and heart, a man can do anything.”_

Neal weighed the silver in his hands. _A man can do anything._

“We could do this,” he said abruptly.

“Do what?” Robin asked, giving the reins a tug to urge the horse forward. 

“This.” Neal held up the sack and jingled the silver coins. “Joust. Compete. We could do this.”

Robin and Rum stopped in their tracks, staring at him. Neal looked back, raising his eyebrows. 

“What?”

“Are you _mad?_ ” Rum said, stopping in his tracks. 

“I don’t think so,” Neal said, nonplussed. “I was just thinking—”

“No, you weren’t!” Rum said wildly. “You can’t keep going around, pretending to be noble! We barely got away with it this time!”

“That’s because I was pretending to be another man,” Neal argued. “What if we invented a noble, eh? No one could accuse me of being an imposter, because he wouldn't be real.”

Robin exchanged an incredulous look with Rum, and turned back to Neal. “Did he get you in the head?” he asked, nodding toward the field. “Did Lord Pretty-Boy knock out the good bits of your brain?”

“Listen to me,” Neal said intently. He looked them both dead in the eye, meeting their disbelieving looks with solid conviction in his words. “There’s a tournament in a month. We’ve got fifteen silver florins now. A few more matches like this, we can triple that—we can quadruple it! That’s enough for outfitting, a proper sword—” 

“Aye, and what about the match itself?” Rum demanded. “You can’t buy _victory,_ boy. At least, not with fifteen florins.”

“Leave that to me,” Neal said dismissively. “I can do this, I know I can.”

Rum and Robin looked at each other again, full of skepticism.

“Oh, come _on,_ ” Neal urged, bracing his hands on their shoulders. “Just look at what we did today! That was one day, and we’ve got a month. Do you realize, in _one month,_ we could be on our way to glory and riches none of us ever dreamed of?”

“I don’t want glory and riches,” Robin said, ducking out from under his arm. “All I want is a meat pie and a warm bed. Glory and riches are better saved for a better man.”

“Guys—” Neal shook out the sack, holding up the handful of florins. “Fifteen silver pieces! That’s all it takes to change our lives!”

“ _You’re a squire_ ,” Rum enunciated. “You’ll never pass for a noble. You haven't got the training, you haven’t got the mannerisms, you don’t know how to behave—”

“I’ve got a month to learn that!” Neal insisted. “And most of it is going to be jousting and swording, anyway, and _that_ I can do!”

Robin shook his head. “Too risky,” he said. “I like my head on my shoulders, I’d rather it stay there.” He held out his hand, wiggling his fingers. “Now give me my money, I want to find a tavern.”

“Forget about the bloody tavern!” Neal said frustratedly. “Can’t you two see past your meat pies and beds for _one_ minute? I am giving us the chance to change our stars, to become champions! We could _do_ this.”

“We’re too close to the ground to reach for stars!” Robin argued. “We weren't made for glory, we’re the sons of _peasants.”_

Neal was silent for a minute, considering his words. _Made for glory…_ But who was made for glory? What was the difference between a man born in a hovel and a man born in a castle? On the field, titles were meaningless: it was a pair of swords, a pair of lances, a pair of fists. Whoever proved himself to be the better man was it, whether he was rich or poor, peasant or lord. All he had to do was prove it.

“All right, he said finally. “Tell you what—fight for your coins. If you can get past me, take them—go to a tavern, eat your fill, slake your thirst. But if you can’t…you come with me.” He warily folded his hands into fists and held them up. “Eh?”

Robin looked at Rum for a minute; he looked back, furrowing his brow. Neal smiled, lowering his fists.

“You see? Money doesn’t—”

“GET HIM!” Robin shouted, and they charged toward him. Neal’s eyes few open as they rushed him and pinned him to the ground.

“No!” he grunted, trying to jerk away as Robin tried to pry his fingers open. “Get off—stop— _aaggh!”_ he yelled as Robin’s teeth sank into his fist. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?”

“D’ you see how hungry I am?” Robin demanded, pushing himself to a stand. “I haven’t eaten in three days, I _want_ my money!” 

“All right, fine!” Neal shielded his hand from Robin as he pinched a single coin between his fingers, and tossed it to him. “Buy yourself a meal. A florin for Rob, and here—” he tossed another one—“a florin for Rum. But the rest… the rest we use to win the tournament.”

Robin sighed, looking forlornly down at the coin in his hand; he trailed his eyes to Rum, and shrugged. “What do you think, Rum?”

Neal looked at him intently. “Come on, please,” he muttered. “Give me a chance.”

Rum studied him for a long time; he flicked his eyes down to the silver coin in his grimy palm. “Change our stars, eh?” he mused. “For thirteen florins…That’s a pretty good bargain.”

Neal blinked. “You’ll do it, then?” 

“Aye,” Rum said reluctantly. “If nothing else, because I know you’ll keep going on about it until I do.”

“Yes!” Neal turned to Robin, beaming. “And you, Rob? What say you?”

“I say, you’re a bloody fool,” Robin grimaced. “But I haven't got any other friends, so I don't really have a choice, do I?”

Neal clapped him on the back, smiling apologetically. “Not really.”

“Brilliant. Let’s do it.”


	3. Chapter 3

The forest made for a decent-enough training ground: they hung rungs from the branches, for Neal to practice running the lance through; they sword-fought with sticks, practicing quick footwork and shielded attacks; and they forced Robin to hold up the little wooden plates for Neal to practice smashing the lane against, no matter how desperately Robin pleaded or how pitifully he whimpered. 

Three weeks. In between the physical training, Rum reminded Neal how to hold himself with an air of nobility: shoulders set, chin lifted, eyes glancing down. He reminded him of the little mannerisms Sir Ector used, the inflections in his speech. Neal tried his best to imitate, but he was a squire, not a minstrel. His attempts were mediocre, at best: there was simply too much country in him, Rum declared, to pass for nobility. Best to let Rum and Robin do the talking, and see if they couldn't fake their way through. 

“This had better work,” Robin grumbled one morning, as they were making their way along the road to Rouen for the tournament. “I tell you, I won’t be pleased if it ends up I’ve been serving your Lordship for the better part of the last month, just so we can get our heads chopped off.”

Neal, sitting atop the only riding horse, ignored him. He knew Robin was only complaining because he was tired and hungry, and for the mere fact that he was Robin. 

“I feel like a bloody horse myself, hauling this wagon around!” Robin scowled, dragging one half of the harness beside the ancient, half-lame horse pulling their supplies. “Neal, give me a turn to ride, I’m exhausted!”

“No,” Neal frowned. “How would that look if we met another knight on the way—me walking while my squire rode?”

“I don’t give a witch’s teat how it looks!” Robin snapped, throwing down the harness. “I want to ride the bloody horse!”

“Maybe nobody should be riding,” Rum interjected before Neal could hurl an insult back at Robin. “Look, the poor thing’s more exhausted than any of us, maybe we should give her a rest.” He patted the horse’s neck, somewhat affectionately. “Eh?”

“Fine,” Neal grumbled, turning in the saddle to dismount…when he caught sight of something rather strange over his shoulder: a tall, lanky man without a stitch of clothing, walking leisurely down the road. 

“’Morning,” he nodded, patting the horse as he walked between them. “Lovely day.”

Neal dropped from the horse, staring bewilderedly after him. “Oi, sir?”

“Mmm?” The man turned around with raised eyebrows,  so casually that one might have believed he wasn't aware he was walking around naked. Neal, Robin, and Rum slowly tilted their heads, squinting at him in puzzlement, before one of them found their voice. 

“What are you doing?”

“Er…” The man shrugged, glancing around himself for inspiration. “Trudging,” he said finally. “I’m trudging.”

They frowned, exchanging confused looks with each other.

“You know, to trudge?” he said, somewhat impatiently; then when they didn’t answer, “To trudge! The slow, weary—” he sighed heavily—“desolate, yet determined walk of a man who has nothing left in his life except the impulse to simply soldier on.”

Neal glanced at the other two, trying to think of a polite way to ask why he was walking around the open road completely naked. “Were you robbed?”

The man let out a bitter laugh, and turned around to continue walking. “Was I robbed? Interesting question, actually,” he said over his shoulder as they followed him. “In many ways, yes—but in many more ways, a huge, resounding _no._ It’s more like an involuntary vow of poverty.”

“A what?”

“But you know, on the brighter side, trudging does represent pride,” the man went on. “A man is nothing without his pride. You can take away his every possession, steal his food, burn his home, strip him of his purse—”

“Or his clothes,” Robin added helpfully.

“—or his clothes,” the man agreed. “But one thing you cannot take away from a man is his name. And so long as a man has pride in his name, he may as well be the richest man in the world! Although,” he muttered bitterly, “I wouldn't mind having a few of the possessions back, myself.”

“And what is yours, sir?” Neal asked, finding the eloquent little beggar-man rather fascinating. “Name, I mean.”

“Jefferson Hatter,” he said, sounding rather proud of himself for some reason. “You’ve probably heard of me.”

Neal glanced at the other, raising his eyebrows questioningly. They shrugged, shaking their heads. _Nope, never heard of him._

Jefferson seemed to hear their silent answer, because he slowed his walked and turned around, an incredulous smile on his face. “Jefferson Hatter?” he repeated. “The writer?”

They all looked between each other, wearing the same bewildered expressions, and turned back to Jefferson with shrugs. They wouldn't know him: they couldn't read. Peasants didn't have that luxury, not like nobles and sons of wealthy fathers, as Jefferson must have been. Perhaps that was where he got that self-righteous indignation showing up on his face.

“ _Jefferson Hatter,_ ” he said again, as if emphasizing it would enlighten them any further. “Jefferson Hatter, _the writer._ ”

“The what?” Rum scoffed.

“That wh—?” Jefferson’s eyes bugged out, and he seemed to choke on his words. “The writer! You know, I write—with ink and parchment?”

“That’s how you make your living, with ink and parchment?” Rum said skeptically. “No wonder you’ve only got your name left.”

“It’s a good living,” Jefferson insisted. “For a penny, I’ll write anything you like. Edicts, creeds, provinces, warrants, patents of nobility—”

Neal lifted his head instantly, looking up with wide eyes. _Patents of nobility?_

 _“—_ letters, notices, announcements—maybe a poem, if the muse ever decides to strike.” He gave a modest shrug. “You might have read my book?”

“Er…sorry, no, I haven’t,” Neal said. “But—you said you write patents of nobility?”

Jefferson looked at him for a minute; then, a knowing smile slowly spread on his face. “Yes, I did,” he said, a trace of smugness in his voice. He looked Neal up and down, taking in his dusty boots and several-times-mended tunic. “And you gentleman are…?”

“Um—” Neal blinked, struggling to remember the noble name they’d invented to enter him in the tournament. “W-well, I am Sir Baelfire v-von Lichtenstein of Gelderland…”

Jefferson nodded slowly, looking rather amused.

“A-and these are my faithful squires, uh—” he gestured at Rum—“Delves of…Dodgington, and—” at Robin—“Fowlhurst of Crew.”

“Right…” Jefferson bit back a smile and came forward to shake his hand. “Richard the Lionheart, pleased to meet you,” he snarked. 

Neal’s smile slowly slid off his face as Jefferson shot off a round of other jeers, laughing uproariously at his own jokes.

“No, no, I’m Charlemagne! No, I’m John the Baptist! I’m the Virgin Mary—!”

“All right!” Neal whipped out his dagger and brought it threateningly forward, making Jefferson stumble to the ground. “Hold your tongue, sir, or I’ll cut it out of your head and hold it for you!”

Jefferson smiled, glancing down at the blade, then back up at Neal. “Now, you see, _that_ I do believe,” he breathed, pointing a shaking finger at the dagger. “ _Sir Baelfire._ ”

Neal eyed him suspiciously for another minute; then slowly straightened up. “Good.”

Jefferson glanced past him at the wagon, his eyes falling on the armor and lances piled through the wooden grates. “Going to the tournament, are you?” he asked interestedly.

“This is the road to _Rouen,_ innit?” Robin scoffed, taking Neal by the arm to tug him back to the wagon and horses. 

“Well, that remains to be seen,” Jefferson shrugged. “They’ve changed the rules, you know. Made it more limited.” He plucked a blade of grass and idly twisted it through his fingers. “Nobility’s got to go back four generations on either side of the family now,” he said distractedly. “And you need a patent of nobility for proof, or they’ll toss you out.” He looked up with a smile, letting the grass slip through his fingers. 

Neal exhaled through his teeth, exchanging a reluctant look with the other two. Jefferson seemed to be a little too smart and too cocky, for them to be entirely comfortable in letting him join the heist. But they needed him: where else were they going to get a patent of nobility?

“Listen,” Jefferson said with the air of someone who knows he’s already won. “Clothe me; shoe me; for God’s sake, feed me; let me ride that horse for a bit; and you’ll have your patents.”

Neal raised his eyebrows at Rum, shrugging slightly. “You think it’s worth it?” he muttered.

“No,” Robin hissed immediately. “Come on, he’s a bloody scoundrel—”

“We need him,” Rum shrugged. “Patents of nobility—”

“I can’t compete without it—”

“—and he’s not asking for much—”

“All right, all right!” Robin said exasperatedly, holding up his hands. “But let me handle it, okay?”

“Be nice,” Rum warned him.

“Yeah, yeah…”

Neal and Rum looked on as Robin strode over to the smug Jefferson, muttering to himself over and over again, “Nice, nice, gotta be nice…I can do this, I can be nice…” He lowered himself to Jefferson’s eye-level, sitting back on his heels with a tight smile on his face. “All right,” he said, struggling to keep the smile on his face. “So…Betray us, and I will fong you. Until your insides are out. Your outsides are in—”

“Oh, Christ,” Neal muttered, rolling his eyes as Robin dove into a string of passionate threats, threatening the brink of incoherence.

“Your entrails will become your extrails! I will _rip—_ all the—” Robin made a strangling gesture with trembling hands, and let out a hysterical laugh. “ _Pain,_ okay? A lot of _pain._ ”

Jefferson nodded, seemingly unconcerned, and stuck out his hand. “Deal.”

 


End file.
